


Explosive Healing

by Wayward_Wordsmith



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Crack Pairing, M/M, Nazis, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Racism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wayward_Wordsmith/pseuds/Wayward_Wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medic is a free man once more. His wife has agreed to divorce him, as they both no longer feel the need for each other. What restrictions he felt before have been removed, and he has been able to accept more of himself than ever before. </p>
<p>Demoman has become progressively lonelier, to a point where he is willing to accept any form of relationship from anyone, be it just a friendship or more. </p>
<p>A series of events and revealing conversations allow the two to become friends instead of just teammates, and it doesn't take long before something more develops between the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published Team Fortress 2 fanfic, and I can only hope it is at least somewhat entertaining. This will be somewhat of a slow-burn romance, as I want to build it up enough to seem believable. This is somewhat of a crack-pairing, as there isn't much cannon to support even a friendship between the two. This chapter is un-beta'd, as future chapters will also likely be.
> 
> Suggestions for improving my writing would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> And just as a warning, a big part of why I wanted to write this was to really dig into how the time period would've realistically taken topics such race, or homosexuality, and even the remains of the Nazi empire.

Medic muttered his thanks as Engineer slopped some form of meat sauce onto his plate. It was the third time that week the RED team had Sloppy Joes for dinner, but the first time the Engineer had cooked. It had to be a specialty of the Texan, as this was also the first time Medic didn’t want to vomit at the scent.

Taking his customary seat next to the Heavy, the two went back and forth talking about the day’s battle as the rest of the team filled the small mess hall. Besides a few advancements, nothing changed much in Gravel Pit. If it weren’t for the thrill of shooting or being shot at, the job would have become boring long ago.

Once everyone was filled with a warm meal, and they had some time to stretch out stiff muscles, it didn’t take long for Scout to start chatting happily with Spy.

The Spy was notorious for his tales of previous jobs done well, especially if they involved a clever move he thought of on the spot. Tonight, he was more than willing to share a personal favorite of his. After some fanfare, and lighting a cigarette, he began.

Medic listened in, usually finding the Spy’s tales either intriguing or humorous in some fashion. This one followed the Spy in one of his earlier jobs, before the last Great War. As always, whenever this particular war was brought up, Medic avoided eye contact with most everyone. Alternatively, Soldier enjoyed mentioning what part he had played in any mentioned war. In detail.

After the brief interruption by Soldier, Spy continued. He spoke of a man in Paris, who was very influential. His power was only matched by his fine reputation. Unfortunately, he had made some powerful enemies, as his political stance was not favored among the people.

Furthermore, it had been rumored that the man wasn’t sexually right. The Spy was given a variety of tools to expose the man, in the hopes that his ruined reputation would prevent him from gaining any more power. However, as Spy was tailing the man, he accidently slipped and the target soon caught onto his follower.

“It was a tricky situation. It was unlikely that I would be able to slip away unnoticed and even less likely that I would be able to gain any evidence from doing so. Instead, I decided the best course of action was to play his game. I approached him, without any disguise.” Spy explained, taking obvious pleasure in the way he played his audience, namely Scout. The young man’s face read like a children’s book.

“It did not take much convincing to assure him I was an admirer of his and that I wished to be his bed partner for the night. I shall spare your virgin ears of the details, but I had managed to take a few photographs of him and I in compromising positions. Naturally, my face never appeared in these photos.”

Tension in the air hung like a thick smog, as none of the teammates were keen to respond to such a lewd story. Medic had his fair share of experience during that brief time period, and knew that the French were as experimental as the Germans. Scanning the faces of the men beside him briefly, Medic was generally unsurprised at their reactions.

Scout was clearly disgusted, and Soldier was incredibly uncomfortable, red filling his face. Engineer, an intellectual, was able to take this revelation well, accepting it as just a part of the story. Pyro was unreadable, and Heavy’s facial expression was at its neutral state. Sniper had left the table long ago. The only expression Medic had trouble understanding was Demoman’s.

He was resting his arms and head on the table, bottle of imported Scrumpy in hand. His expression was sad, which was common enough whenever he had too much to drink. What wasn’t common was the longing evident in the way he stared off into the pattern of the table.

“My employers were surprised at the evidence I had gathered, but they paid handsomely. Whether my actions helped or harmed the people of Paris did not matter, as any effect of the removal of the target would have been forgotten in following years.” The Spy finished his tale curtly, aware of the frustration building up in the Soldier.

“Listen here, French-Fry! While Team Fortress Industries does not incorporate the use of The Great American Army’s discretion over the sexuality of its men, I would advise you now that not everyone appreciates hearing your inappropriate stories!” Soldier bellowed, echoing into the stunned silence that followed.

“My mistake, _Soldat_ ,” Spy spat at him. “But I believe it was understood that I was working a job at the time. A _professional_ pursuit, if you will.” He crossed his arms, which Medic had long since recognized as his dignified pouting pose. Medic himself preferred to stay out of these quarrels, as he could not predict the outcome other than hurt feelings on both sides.

He thought that those not directly involved in the argument felt the same way, until Demoman surprised him.

“I’d’ve done it. Sounds like good money, if you ask me. Nothing wrong with a job well done, or a chance to get laid.” He looked up from the table to give a cheeky grin to those nearest to him, clearly unsure of how they’d react. Medic could not help but to stare right at him, jaw slackened.

While he could’ve guessed the Spy was of an open mind, he never would’ve pictured the Demoman to not only be accepting of such a taboo, but to also be joking about performing such a thing himself! Demoman always seemed like such a simpleton to the Medic, only concerned with explosives and whiskey.

Soldier was reaching the extent of his diplomatic abilities, and while it was not clear whether he was frustrated by someone backing up his intended victim, or someone else held an opposing viewpoint on the specific subject, the shaking in his arms proved he could no longer contain himself. Loudly excusing himself, Soldier left to go to an emergency tea party with old comrades.

Medic reminded himself to look into Soldier’s mental state.

Spy excused himself shortly afterwards, aware his presence was no longer necessary. Scout, slow as ever, brought conversation back into the room.

“I don’t mind queers, so long as it’s just ladies.” Heavy laughed at this, his booming chuckle filling the room.

“And when has little man seen lady-queers?” Scout blushed profusely, his youth clear and obvious.

“I’ve seen ‘em hold hands and shit, kissing even. O’ course, I don’t peek at anything other than that, Mom taught me some manners.” His vague tone hinted that it was more than likely a onetime event, which surprised no one.

“You cannae just accept one queer and not the other. What sorta sense would that be?” Demoman piped in. Medic was glad the general tone in the room had become a little more cheerful. Leaning on his elbows, he easily added to the conversation.

“You know, you all act like homosexuals are something new. Germany used to have a lot of clubs catering just to these people. Many of whom only pretended to be this way.” It was a risk in his mind to speak so freely of such things, but he had grown comfortable enough with his comrades to not fret too much. The fact that none of them knew his name made it even better.

Scout was perplexed by Medic’s statement, completely ignoring Demoman for the time being.

“Now why the hell would someone act like a queer?” The question hung for a moment, and it was Engineer who answered his question for him.

“It was fashionable. Folks didn’t have a hell of a lot of money, and when people get down like that they’re willing to try a whole heap of things to feel better. Be it in their right mind or not.” The word _Nazi_ passed through Medic’s mind, sending a chill through him, though he hoped the Engineer was referring to homosexuality instead.

“Well that’s stupid.” Scout said in an accusing voice, clearly not into the rising “free love” movement his generation celebrated.

“Watch it, lad. You should be more careful about how ye judge somebody,” Demoman said in a surprisingly aggressive tone. Scout shut his mouth after that, and chose to leave soon after. Medic was mentally storing these reactions from Demoman, picking up signs leading to a conclusion he wasn’t sure he could believe yet or not. As a medical practitioner, it was hard to make a proper diagnosis, even if many of the symptoms were present.

Symptoms. He was classifying everything like in the old system, the one he wasn’t allowed to use for the past 20 years. It was a system that had brought him much pain, but one he dutifully memorized nonetheless. Old habits were hard to kill, especially those born out of fear.

With the conversation dead, he excused himself to leave for his small office, located in the Medical Wing. Lifting a document from the top of his desk, Medic gave a sad smile to the empty room before him, both exhilarated and depressed. The document was almost completely filled out, lacking only a signature from his dear wife.


	2. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Medic becomes a free man, no longer restrained by the requirements of his youth.

Dinner that Sunday night was tense. Off base and off hours, Medic sat at one end of a short table, mindlessly eating as he thought over his exact wording. They had talked about this before, and they have long since learned that what they felt for each other was mutual love, but of a familial sort. Without the pressure of being the perfect man and wife, or the perfect Germans, the strict views on married life they once held no longer felt as enforced.

Sure, marriage was still a structural point in small town USA culture, but as they were already outcasted due to their nationality, what could one more thing do? Very few of the locals appreciated Medic's career choice anyways, especially since the company seeming focused on blowing useless gravel sky high.

The money, as good as it was, brought little comfort to his wife, as she still spent much of her days looking over the small house they had rented out near the battlegrounds. On the outskirts of the only town for miles, their domicile was always kept un-humanly clean. Fresh food was always in stock, despite how difficult it was to farm in the desert. A singular phone sat dormant on a table top, used only for communication between the two when Medic could not make it home after work.

Truly, it was no life for a person, housewife or not. On numerous occasions, Medic had suggested to her to make friends in town, or to try traveling. They could certainly afford it should she have wanted to take a vacation. Always she replied to the latter with _"a good wife is never far from her husband"_ and to the former with sullen remembrance over how the locals had made fun of her accent and heritage. Despite her excuses, it was more than clear she was not happy.

It was for this reason that he gently removed the folded paper from his pocket. Flattening it against the table, he set it down in front of her, purposefully avoiding her questioning look. He gave her a silent moment to read it over, or at least enough lines to understand what he was asking. Without giving her time to question, he spoke.

"You know I love you. You are incredibly dear to me, and I owe so much of my happiness to you. It is because of this that I refuse to see you so unhappy. I cannot offer you more as a husband, and cannot allow myself to hold you down any further. Please understand." She did not look at him for another minute, and when she did there were tears in her eyes. Standing up, Medic moved to kneel beside her, softly placing his hand on hers.

"Do you not want me anymore?" Her soft voice sent a pulling pain down his chest. Her lower lip had begun quivering. If he wasn't trying to distance himself, he would've reached out to gently hold it still with the pad of a finger.

"Of course I want you, but that means I also want you to be happy. You are not meant to be kept down like this, it is killing you." He took a breath, collecting his thoughts as tears flowed freely down her face. "A man is to provide for his wife, in every way he can. I cannot provide for neither your happiness, nor your companionship anymore. Please, for yourself and for me, sign these papers."

They stayed like that, her glaring down through her water-filled eyes at the paper, and him staring imploringly into her face. Their hands never parted, hers were balled up tight under his larger set. Finally, after releasing a shaky sigh, she plucked a pen from Medic's breast pocket, hurriedly signing her name in ink. She stood up abruptly, and shoved the papers into Medic's chest.

"This is what you want, then so it shall be. I do not want to see you again after tonight." She stood glaring at him, her eyes briefly betraying a deep emotion akin to sadness and relief before she stormed off to their bedroom. The slam of the door punctuated the night, as Medic sighed, sitting down and looking over the papers one last time.

-~-

Bright and early for battle the next day, Medic was strangely quiet as the rest of the team whooped and hollered entering the battlegrounds. He kept his movements short and to the point, clearly concise and pensive with his work. He left the battle with barely a scratch on him, having died only a few times. Respawn was a wonderful thing, and as he sat down in the mess hall with a case of beer, he wondered briefly if he ever told his wife how many times he had died and was reborn.

The crack of the bottle cap popping off reminded him that he meant to think ex-wife.

After the first, cool, tingling sip of company beer, Medic heard the shuffling of a chair and another, separate _pop_. Glancing over, he was slightly curious as to why Demoman had chosen to sit so close, but this question was quickly answered.

"I know the look of a troubled man anywhere. Now I ain' askin for yer whole story, but you should know that drinkin is always better when you're celebrating." Without prompt, Demo clanked his bottle of presumably scotch against Medic's beer. A few droplet strayed from the lips of the bottles, but there was no further damage. Not wanting to be rude, Medic drank along with Demoman.

"Interestingly enough, Herr Demo, I am celebrating." He chuckled lightly at this before continuing with, "I've already sent the papers out this morning; I'm divorcing my wife."

Demoman did not respond at first, and instead stared at Medic. His face held little expression, not exactly shocked but also not exactly understanding.

Several moments passed before he finally said, "I didn' know you were hitched, doc."

"You never asked." Was his curt reply. Met with silence, Medic took a heavy swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm. "But, you're right. This is a celebration. I could no longer keep her content, and there was no sense in holding her down like I was. She will be better off." He spoke listlessly, and let his mind and focus wonder as the sound of a distant sentry beeping filled the room.

Demoman was uncharacteristically sombre, and allowed the silence to continue. He was usually loud and boisterous, often singing or dancing to the tunes of his homeland. On weekends, others joined in, but most days it was considered an annoyance.

"Did she make you happy?"

The question came out of the blue, and Medic would have sputtered if he had alcohol in his mouth at the time. To think that Demoman actually cared enough to follow along with Medic's predicament enough to ask a serious question was astounding. Medic had long since thought that what remained of the alcohol ridden brain matter in Demoman was filled with thoughts of explosives and bombs. Though, as he thought more and more about it, on days where they had lost in battle, Demo was known to get incredibly drunk and to become upset over his lovelife, or lack thereof.

"Yes. Yes, I believe she made me very happy," Medic answered.

"Then why would you let that go?" Medic lifted his gaze to look into Demoman's eyes, honestly staring into them for once. The surprising amount of clarity in those darkened eyes gave Medic an odd feeling about this.

"Because I loved her." After realizing that such an answer didn't make sense to the bachelor before him, Medic added more to his explanation. "We were best friends when we married. She was a nurse, and I was a doctor, and everyone encouraged our relationship very much. I was... _pressured_ , I suppose, into asking for her hand. I owe her a great deal, quite possibly my life included." He thought briefly over if he should explain that part, but decided that it was to much to unload on a coworker. "A housewife was what she became then, and once we moved to America, it was clear how much it affected her. The people in this 'Great Land' are not as inviting as we thought they were..." 

Demoman snorted, downing a sizable amount from his bottle. "Ain' that the truth. Didn' have a single problem with my heritage back in Scotland. I was a Scott through and through! Scottish blood boils through me, just the same as any other man at home. I grew up thinking that some kids had red hair, some had curly hair, and some had skin like mine. Didn' matter a bit! But then I get here to work for that skeezey woman, and suddenly I've suspected of everything! Can' ask for the time of day withou' getting dirty looks!"

His voice slowly rose in volume as he ranted on, but most of the team had long since gone to bed. The faint whispers of Soldier training far away trailed through the halls of the base, but they did not fill the mess hall as loudly as Demoman's shouts. While he did not appreciate the volume, Medic was glad that he was no longer the focus of the conversation.

"An' how can I ever expect to find meself a lass when they're all to scared to talk to me? Sure I'm missing an eye, but past the sulfur, I can be caring! I can be loving! I live in a fuckin' mansion for christ's sake! I got more money than I know what to do with, and I still can't find someone!" At some point, Demo had begun to rise slowly, and now had to sit himself back down from his standing position. Medic couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm, as he remembered fondly about being so passionate for love.

"I've experienced similar problems. Once these people realize I'm a German, they can't get past that. Suddenly, I'm the evilest of all evils, and surely all I want to do is brutally kill! That may be my profession by trade, but we're at war. The enemy never truly dies anyways, and I've died often myself. But they don't know that, and they don't want to either." He looked down at his glass bottle, swishing what little liquid that was left before finishing it off. 

He was surprised when Demo quickly presented him with another, freshly opened bottle. He was taken aback even more when Demoman quickly thrust his own bottle against it, spilling out beer everywhere. 

"To us then! Love may have found and left ye, but now's your chance to try again! True, the pickings are few out here, but I've got your back! We may be foreigners, but that doesn't mean we have to put up with their racism!" 

Medic shook his head, laughing. "Very well then, to us as bachelors!" Demoman forcibly clanked the bottles again, before attempting to chug it in it's entirety. Medic took only a sip, impressed when Demo slammed his empty bottle down.

Sometime from now, he would look back on this and remember that Demoman was right. Drinking was better when done in celebration, especially with someone else.


	3. Off Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demoman is injured off hours, when the respawn is turned off.

For the next week or so, a pattern had developed between Medic and Demoman. During meals, Demo had become keen on sitting near Medic, if not occupying the next seat over. He always had something to say to Medic too, be it a story of how he nearly blew up his elementary school, or an honest question about the functions of body-parts that seemed to have no use. At first, the sudden press for companionship was obnoxiously overbearing for the doctor, but after a fews days he began to appreciate the conversations.

The only explanation he could come up with for this sudden companionship was that Demoman _actually_ seemed lonely when they weren't talking to each other. Sure, Demoman was a chatterbox before their celebratory night together. But now as Medic thought it through, how many people actually responded to him? How many people were willing to listen? Demo told him that it was difficult to speak to the white females in the area, maybe he had a problem talking to the white _males_ too.

Engineer, Soldier, and Scout were all clearly American, thus having a national disposition to opposing darker-skinned gentlemen. Pyro didn't do much talking anyways, so it was hard to say if he held a problem with Demoman. Spy had a problem with everyone, and Sniper rarely talked to anyone. Heavy, who was a surprisingly deep thinker, did not like to talk much outside of guns unless he was talking to Medic. And Medic himself, who everyone thought was the epitome of the Nazi's beliefs, only just proved himself a worthy conversationalist to the demolitions expert.

The more he thought about it, the more Medic realized he was probably the beginnings of Demoman's only friend. The thought both flattered and worried him. It was nice to know that someone seeked his company, but at the same time he knew he could appear rather cold. He had been brought up to not be open with anyone outside of his family, and yet the more he and Demoman spoke, the easier he found it. 

A good part of that was likely due to the exoticness of the man. He had the mannerisms of a northern european, and yet he had the smooth, dark colorings of a man from the tropics. He had grown in a neighborhood where such colored-people were not considered healthy. And yet he knew from experiance of working with them that they were just as capable of normal, mental tasks. It was exhilarating his first day, working side-by-side with Demo. To see him plan out where to place his bombs with such precision and timing was hypnotizing.

It was as he was recalling his first day, all those years ago, that he ran into Demoman on his way to the med-bay. Quite literally. After having fallen forward onto his hands and knees, Medic turned to find a severely injured Demoman laying against the hallway wall. Burns covered his face and upperbody, and blood fused stiffly with the crisped flesh. If it weren't for a wheezing apology, Medic wouldn't have recognized the man as alive.

His heart was pacing as he quickly turned himself around, gently moving Demo into a semi-standing position. From there, he half-carried, half-dragged him into the Medical Bay. 

Hefting him onto a table, Medic quickly grabbed his ceiling mounted medi-gun, flicking the switch to turn it on. Cool, swirling wisps flowed out from the barrel of the healing device, immediately swarming around Demo. Medic could only sit and watch as skin began to reform. Fingers that he hadn't noticed were missing began reappearing, and slowly  Demo's breathing began to even out. The scrap of fabric that served as an eye-patch  seperated itself from the charred skin and reformed. 

It was sometimes a shock, after using the respawn technology all day, to have such urgency to fix a serious injury. In order to save electricity, as well as resources, the Respawn was only allowed to be on during work hours. Outside of battle, all field medics were allowed to use their medi-guns, but no other merchandise from Mann Co. Of course, his years of practicing helped him react quickly, and as the final layer of skin formed over Demoman, he felt a familiar rush of pride in his abilities at saving life.

Admittably, the biggest shock from seeing Demo hurt like this wasn't the physical wound, but rather he heard no explosion, no fire alarm alerting him to his injury. Granted, he had been in the lavatory at the likely time, and most rooms were sound-proofed in the base. If he hadn't stumbled upon him at the time he did though, it was likely he wouldn't have made it. With the respawn not on, that meant a permanent death.

Demo's eyes fluttered open, and the bright light they met with made him shade his eye, sitting up a little in the process. Once he was a little more conscious, he looked around at his surroundings. Seeing Medic made him lay back and smile, brilliant white teeth shining through.

"Thanks Doc, didn' think I'd make it to the Med-Bay in time!" He laughed a little, rubbing at the his eye some more. Medic smiled along.

"Of course, Herr Demo. After all, healing is what I am here for." He lifted the mounted medi-gun, flicking the off switch while he was at it. "Though I must ask, what was it you were doing that caused you to come to me?"

"Ah, just some office work. Mixed the wrong trigger with the wrong chloride, you know how it is." Medic smiled and shook his head lightly.

"I'm afraid I don't, Herr Demo. While I may consider myself a man of science, I do not specialize in chemical reactions, such as yourself."

Demoman laughed at this. "You should probably get more aquainted with the finer points of it then. I'd say at least half of your medical gear is volatile." He spoke as he gazed around the room. "I should show you sometime, don't want to come in here for an exam one day and end up needing to go to the doctor's... again." 

Medic helped Demo sit up, until his legs could swing off the edge of the table. The medi-gun was usually used in battle, and as such it was designed to increase blood flow and adrenaline. While naturally much of that went into the actually healing, it was a bit dizzying to have any left over, especially if the person experiancing the effects of the medi-gun wasn't currently under the effects of adrenaline fueled by fighting. 

"Thank you for the offer, though I think I know my way around my equipement well enough. Let me get you a glass of water, you're looking a little green." Medic swiveled around, cringing at the mention of skin color as he was afraid it might be considered offensive. Thinking this over, and feeling greatful that Demo didn't seem to notice what might have been a faux pas, medic filled a small beaker with tap water only to turn and find Demo was working the cap off a small bottle of hotel whiskey. 

"What do you think you're doing?! Drinking at this late of an hour. Water will be better for you, here." Medic forcibly grabbed the bottle and set it down on the counter behind him, handing the glass of water over. He noticed a strangle tingle at the brief contact of their hands, but wrote it off as the remaining swirls of the medi-guns mist. 

"Ahh c'mon, I'd feel a lot better with something more tasteful. Fine, I'll drink yer bland water." Demo eyed the clear liquid suspiciously before sipping at it lightly.

"You're lucky I came across you when I did. I had only just been coming back here to finish some field reports. I honestly don't know how I am expected to fill these out on the battleground. Sometimes I wonder if they even read these..." He glanced back at his desk, where open medical journals and empty reports lay in an organized mess.

"I don't care if a single person reads them, or a thousand, I glad ya write them anyways. I s'pose I owe my life to those books. Thank ya, again." Medic shared a brief smile with him, before ushering him off to bed.

"I'll be keeping the whiskey too, you really should start trying to hold back on that stuff anyways." He watched as Demoman left, noting the phsyical prime he was in despite his poor diet. Once he heard the close of the door, he moved to his desk, picking up his pen and restarting the work for the night.


	4. Conversation Topics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Medic and Demoman start asking more personal questions, and Demoman opens up a little.

Not much changed in the routine set up by Demo and Medic the following day. Morning breakfast was a quite affair among the entire team, as always. The only noise came from soldier, as he barked out orders on how he wanted his breakfast, half-awake. The two sat together in silence after muttering their greetings. They left separately, as each had different tasks to complete before they entered the locker room, awaiting the inevitable countdown that would send them into the battle zone.

Rarely did Medic have the ability to follow Demoman, as Heavy or Soldier were the two offense that he could manage to keep up with. Between that and quick fix-ups of everyone, Medic was willing to argue that he ran just as much, if not more than Scout. After all, he did not visit the respawn as much as the Bostonian did, and did not bother to stop to taunt as often either. 

The battles were fairly similar day-to-day. There were a few slight differences, for instance one team might have control over one area the other controlled the day before, or on the rare occasion one team would be missing a member due to a sick day. Fighting styles rarely changed among the team classes, as one usually stuck with what they knew. It was hard to tell sometimes when they were really making a difference in the war, but then they'd be moved to a different area of land and it could be assumed that they had fully gained control of the last area.

The end of the day was usually tough, depending on the outcome of the match. The winning team, or at least the members who felt up to it, usually did a victory lap around the grounds, shooting any enemy dead. It was joyous for the victors, especially since the opposing team was ususally to focused on retreating and made for easy targets. For the losers, if they weren't close enough to their entry point, they were usually shot into respawn, where they were met with a brief headache and disappointment. As if losing wasn't bad enough, to be struck down and taunted without a means of fighting back was frustrating. 

Unfortunately, the teams left with a tie, and that meant no progress. With such manual work, and no results, it was easy for team members to become restless. A tie was worse than a loss, because at least with a loss it was obvious that they hadn't worked hard enough. With a tie, it showed that even with all their efforts, they couldn't make a dent.

With this hopeless logic, it was no wonder most of the team had wanted to be on their own for the night. Dinner wasn't organized, and really people came for dinner and ate when they wanted. Finishing his reports early, as there was not much to report for the day, Medic decided to spend some liesure time in the mess hall. Off to the side, there was a ratty couch and a record player that scout was suprisingly kind enough to share with the team. Of course, the records he had for it weren't very good, but it was still nice for listening. And of course there were a few books, the majority of which were Mann Co. renditions of popular reads.

Medic picked up a book with the title of "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings." The title reminded him of his pet doves, and it amused him that TF Industries kept books that were recent  _and_ popular. It didn't take long before he realized it was about racial America. He didn't expect to become as involved in it as he was, but he found it to be rather informative. While the disctintion between men and women when it came to racism did not matter to much to him, he did find the first hand view to be something he could connect with.

He was shaken out of his reading when the record player skittered to life. His eyes immediately darted up to find Demoman, who was trying to operate the player.

"Herr Demo, you scared me. I had not realized there was anyone else in the room." Medic set the book down, careful to remember the page number he was at. 

"Sorry Doc, thought you wouldn't mind if I put on some music. Feelin' emptier than usual, and the silence was getting to me I guess." Demo settled himself into the couch next to Medic. 

"I agree, today was a close tie, and it is unfortunate to lose such a match." They sat comfortably for a moment, and Demoman relaxed enough to sink into the couch and rest his head on the back of the couch. "Before I forget, I've been meaning to return this to you." Medic pulled out from his pocket the small, hotel size bottle of whisky Demoman had left with him the night before.

"Ya can keep it. I've got plenty of 'em." Demo's eyes slipped closed, and Medic couldn't help but note the bone structure. It was something he was forced to study in his early days of practicing, and it was something engrained in him to do when given the opportunity.

"If you don't mind me asking, this bottle is from a hotel in Las Vegas. We aren't stationed anywhere near Las Vegas, and as far as I know, you almost always go straight home during the weekend. Why bother keeping these cheap little bottles?"

Demoman sat up a little more, turning himself to better face Medic.

"It's not for a good reason, I'll tell you that. Nearly lost my job over the affair, but if they haven't fired me yet, I don't think they'll fire me over telling ya. See, a few years ago, I met the BLU soldier at the annual explosives weapon. At first we were at each other's throats, but after we both passed out and woke up in the convention center jail, we made conversation over weapons, and realized we were two of the same soul. We started meeting together off hours." 

Medic tried to not let the shock shine through, but it was against their contracts for there to be close friendships among team members, let alone enemys. Of course, sometimes friendships formed in close teams anyways, and those involved were rarely reprimanded for it. 

"We even took a trip to Vegas. I don't know how the man did it, but he set me up with the most beautiful girl. She was stunning, just absolutly stunning. She said she thought my eyepatch was cute, and she giggled at my accent. It was a nice night." The smile that had building up as he spoke faded before he began again. "O' course, once that ended between me and him, and we started fighting on the battlegrounds again, he told me he paid her. Doesn't seem like such a great night now." He drifted off, the familiar sadness filling his face.

The music filled the silence between them. Medic considered several things to say, but decided comforting him was the wisest thing to do.

"She may have been paid to sleep with you, but she wasn't paid to say those nice things to you. She might have actually enjoyed it." Demo sighed, though it sounded like he was agreeing. 

"I suppose. Doesn't help that I haven't gotten a good lay since that, and I don't think paying for it is the right thing to do. God, I wish someone would just _look_ at me sometimes, you know? Like I wasn't a freak of nature." Demo ran his hand under his hat, through the dark curls that laid underneath.

"Herr Demo, I don't think you're a freak at all. Believe me, I have studied freaks, from conjoined twins to a woman with twenty toes. You are a fit man, with plenty of means to provide for a woman, and I doubt that they're ignoring you." Medic kept his voice firm, hoping he could convince his newly found friend that he was worthy of affection.

"You had a wife, how could you know what it's like? When everyone shuns you?" Demo's voice was raising a little bit, desperation making his voice sound accusing.

"Oh right, how could I know?" Medic nearly rolled his eyes, but his disbelief was still evident. "It's not like I was nearly prosecuted for frequenting night clubs in my youth. It's not like I had control over how many of my neighbors, my friends, my lovers were taken away. It's not like the people on my street hated me for my position; they thought I was guarenteed safety. The only safety I was given was after I married, and even then that meant the questions stopped." His voice quivered with a little anger, but it was still subdued in comparison to the rage he usually exhibited. "Do you really think a little bad luck with women is so bad?"

Demoman stared at him, unsure of how to proceed. They were both dealt bad hands, and the growing friendship between them argueably one of the few good things between them both. Medic realized this, and felt that his outburst was unfair.

"I apologize. Those were things of the past, and yours are things of the present. I promise you, if there was anyway I could help you, I would in a heartbeat." Medic leaned a little closer to Demo, showing that he was serious.

"It's fine, you're right. It could be worse for me. I needed you to yell at me to knock some sense into my head. I'd say that I feel pathetic, but I am starting to get sick with myself. If my pa could see me now, I bet ya he'd be more disappointed in how I'm reacting rather than my luck with finding a wife. And mum is already mad that I only have one job, she's just gonna have to make due without grandkids in our mansion. Thank-you though, I really needed to get all that out of my head."

The record skittered to a halt, and both were amazed to find that they had made it through the entire record so soon, especially since neither had listened in past the first song.

"Well, I think it is time to turn in for the night. I do not know about you, but I am not ready for another tie tomorrow. Goodnight, Herr Demo." With that, Medic stood up, replacing his book onto the bookshelf. Demo stood up with him, stretching as he did so.

"I think I'll agree with you on that one. Goodnight doc."

As Medic was leaving, he heard Demo turn off the record player, and heard the click of the light switch follow shortly after that. He found it odd that Demo was going to bed so early, but it seemed like the explosives expert was trying to take better care of his health more often now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long while since I've updated, and I'd like to note that I changed the ending for Chapter Three. I felt that the new ending would help flow into this chapter better.


End file.
